


Year 2007

by Luna_Hart



Series: Snapshots [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Birthdays, Domestic Fluff, Dominant Jack, Flashbacks, HYDRA Husbands, M/M, Muses, Panks, Photography, Presents, Revenge, Sexy Times, Strong Language, Sweet, Sweet Brock, good guy Brock Rumlow, good guy Jack Rollins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 13:23:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11231889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_Hart/pseuds/Luna_Hart
Summary: A collection of moments in the lives of Brock Rumlow and Jack Rollings:Moving in together and rekindled hobbies, kick-boxing, post shower playtime, sweet revenge, and sweeter birthdays.





	1. February

“Fucker!” Jack looked up as Brock Rumlow tumbled through the door, arms piled high with cardboard boxes. He kicked the door shut behind him and dumped the boxes on the floor with a curse. “What the fuck do you have in these, bricks?” Brock griped as he shrugged off his soggy jacket.

“And who the fuck decides to move in the middle of a thunder storm?!” As if to emphasize his point, a loud thunderclap rumbled outside as rain lashed at the floor-to-ceiling windows on the other side of the living room.

Jack decided not to comment, instead continuing to unpack his cooking ware. It wasn’t difficult to find places to store it all. Brock was definitely more of a take-out kinda guy.  
Jack looked up as Brock cursed again. He watched as the other man shoved the stack of boxes across the living room, popping the top out open and starting to unload the contents into the bookshelf.

Many things had changed for Jack since he was that small boy with the too-long hair, sitting in his mother’s kitchen with his very first camera. Life definitely threw him a couple curve balls, leading him down a career path with a very different kind of shooting than he had once dreamed of.

 

 

The promise of an education, financial stability, and the ability to help others led a fresh-faced, eighteen-year-old Jack Rollins into a promising career in the Marines. As he rose through the ranks, photography took more and more of a back seat until finally Jack had packed it all away into a bin, intending to sell it all when he finally had the time.

After seven years of working in the Marines he caught the eye of HYDRA and was recruited to their cause. Jack really took the whole cause of the organization rather loosely. If they wanted to change the world, let them. All he wanted at the end of the day was a purpose. And a paycheque.

Through HYDRA he was sent to infiltrate the government organization S.H.I.E.L.D. as a sleeper agent and that’s where he met one Brock Rumlow and his world was turned upside down.

  
In the beginning, he could barely stand the man. He was an arrogant prick, exuding macho-man bullshit from his very pores. He was quick to anger with a massive chip on his shoulder and a small-dog syndrome that caused him to go toe-to-toe with anyone bigger than him just to prove that he was the top dog in the yard, not you.

After six months, he began to regard Brock Rumlow with something that was almost, if not quite, respect. The man was a viciously good fighter, often sending new recruits and fellow agents off to the infirmary with sprains, bruises, even the occasional dislocation.

The man was a one man army of his own and down right deadly with a weapon in his hands. Jack ended up becoming his regular sparing partner, partially because he was the only one who could keep pace with Brock but mostly because nobody else was dumb enough to try.

This led to them spending time together outside of missions; in the gym, in the ring, or on the range. Brock was fiercely competitive and, while Jack wasn’t, it became a highlight to beat the smaller man on the range, or to pin him down when they sparred. Brock would curse under his breath and demand a rematch.

After a year, Jack began to regard Brock Rumlow with reluctant respect. When Jack first found out that he would be serving S.H.I.E.L.D. on one of their STRIKE teams, the same one Brock Rumlow served on, he was less than thrilled.

  
The man was a cowboy, a loose cannon. He was fast and loose in training, completely disregarding the safety of his sparring partners. More than once Jack had limped out of the ring, nursing sever bruises, even once a dislocated shoulder.

  
Brock was also a motor-mouth. He never stopped talking, tossing snide comments and back-handed insults. Even when he was sparring, the man didn't shut up.

In the field, however, Brock Rumlow was a completely different animal. He was calm and collected, tolerating nothing except professional perfection and military precision from his fellow agents. He always looked at all the angles. He ever rushed into anything and would even defy his Commander if he wasn't confident about a operation or satisfied with the intel they had been provided with.

  
Once, on a really rough mission in Bucharest, Brock refused a direct order from not only his Commander but from the Director himself. That decision resulted in saving the lives of three STRIKE teams and Brock became the youngest STRIKE Commander in S.H.I.E.L.D history.

Having the responsibility of command changed Brock. He became more focused, less sarcastic. He grew more patient, more grounded. He spend less weekends getting shit-faced and making bad decisions, and spending more time training new recruits, working with the techs on new and improved weaponry. In short, he grew up.

After three years, Jack began to regard Brock Rumlow with a level of trust that he had never given to any of his past commanders or units. It was a cold day in September when Shultz was killed on a disastrous mission riddled with bad intel.

After listening to Brock rip their support team a new one for over an hour, he snuck out the back to mourn in his own way. Brock found him hours later, sitting alone in the far corner of the empty cafeteria. He plopped down across from Jack, poured them each a shot of tequila, and asked Jack to be his new second-in-command.

It turned out to be the perfect balance of Commander and second. Where Brock was hot tempered and quick to snap, Jack was calm and slow to anger. Where Brock never shut up, Jack rarely said more than a handful of words at a time. This had the affect of when he did speak everyone listened, even Brock. He was the cool and collected next to Brock’s flash fire of a personality. They complimented each other completely, sharing equal authority in planning ops and calling the shots.

While Jack would differ to Brock’s judgement, he never hesitated to pull the older man aside and privately call him out on his bullshit or tell him if he thought he was making a bad call. Whenever he did so, Brock would just smile at him with that big shit-eating grin of his and quip, “That’s right, Jacky. You and me, till the end!”

After five years of working with Brock Rumlow, Jack began to regard the other man with far more feelings than a second should feel for his fellow soldier and Commander. He’d always known he was attracted to men but had kept that to himself for as long as he could remember. Joining the military in 1993 wasn’t exactly the time or place to be loud and proud. He had never told anyone, not even his mother, never allowing himself to get closer to someone beyond the occasional one-night stand.

So as he found his feelings for Brock Rumlow moving further away from friendly camaraderie and closer to something that scared the shit out of Jack, he began pulling away from Brock and the team. He had always been withdrawn, the strong silent type, so there wasn't much of a change to his normal behaviour. Or so he thought.

  
He nearly had a heart attack when Brock had cornered him in the showers after a mission about it. Jack had lingered under the hot spray as everyone else packed up and went home, throwing jokes about prunes and not drowning at Jack over their shoulders.

He had shut off the water and dried briskly, wrapping a towel around his hips. The next thing he knew he was grabbed and pinned against the cold tile wall. He barely stopped himself from socking Brock across the face. The asshole got up real close, disregarding any notion of personal space, and had demanded to know what the fuck was going on with him. Jack didn't know what came over him, he just grabbed Brock by the shirt and smashed his lips against the shorter man’s.

  
Jack had realized his mistake a split second later. He pushed Brock away and fled, only stopping long enough to throw his pants and boots on before he was out the door.

Later that night, as Jack sat in his apartment wondering if a transfer would be enough or if he should just put a bullet in his brain now and save Brock the trouble, a loud banging on his door made him jump out of his skin. Brock had yelled through the door, telling him to let him in or else he would just say what he had come to say out in the hall and he wasn't sure if the neighbours would appreciate that.

Jack opened the door, head down and refused to look Brock in the eye. For the second time that day he found himself slammed against a wall. He tensed, ready for a fist to the jaw or the cold press of a gun barrel under his chin. Neither of those things happened. Instead a warm, calloused palm had cupped his cheek. Startled, Jack had looked up and the next thing he knew there were warm lips pressing gently, almost hesitantly, against his.

 

 

Jack was shaken loose from his nostalgia as something hard smacked him in the shoulder.  
“Ow, what the fuck!?” He growled, bending down to pick of a softcover edition of Catcher In The Rye, which was what Brock had decided to lob at his head when Jack had stopped paying attention to him.

“Asshole,” Jack muttered, tossing the book on the counter. “Yeah, you love my asshole,” Brock snarked, shoving a handful books on the shelves and kicking the empty box to the side. Jack decided not to encourage Brock further by responding to that. He busied himself with dismantling the last box left in the kitchen and neatly adding it to the stack by the front door.

  
It had been almost eight years since he had met Brock Rumlow. If someone had told Jack then that he would eventually be moving in with the man and be in a relationship with him, not that they ever called it that willingly, he would have laughed in their face.

 

Two weeks ago, as Jack was sprawled next to Brock in post-orgasm bliss, the darker-haired man suggested that since Jack spent most nights at Brock’s anyways, he might as well just move in.

When Jack had just stared at him, Brock blushed and muttered something about all of Jack’s work gear already being here and then something about them being able to save on rent. He only stopped his rambling when Jack had told him to shut up and pulled him in for a bruising kiss.

 

And so here they were, moving day. Jack hadn’t owned much in the means of furniture, and Brock’s stuff was nicer anyways, so it was easy to just drop off the few items he did have at the thrift store.  
Of course with their luck, they decided to move Jack in on the day that the city seemed determined to break rain records. It was also the day the only elevator up to Brock’s tenth floor apartment decided to break.

There was only a few boxes left to unpack now, everything up in the apartment since Brock had lugged up those last few boxes of books. “Hey, what’s in here?” Jack looked up to see Brock removing a small cardboard box from the last bin left to unpack.

  
Jack took a deep, steadying breath. He walked into the living room and took the box from Brock. He gently took off the lid, lifting out a battered old camera.

Jack could feel Brock’s eyes on him as he stared down at the camera. He made the decision after a moments hesitation and made room for it on the bookshelf, placing two bookends on either side to protect it.  
“It..uh, was my first camera. My mom gave it to me for my birthday when I was nine.” Jack offered up as an explanation.

  
“Huh,” Brock commented, diving back into the bin. “I didn’t know you were into photography. Shit, man! Look at all this stuff!” Jack looked down into the bin, revealing the collection of vintage cameras he had obtained through his youth.

Before he could stop him, Brock had scooped up one of his photo binders and started flipping through it. He whistled loudly as he flipped through the pages. “Damn, these are really good!”

  
“Uh, thanks,” Jack said a little self conscious as he shelved the rest of his cameras.“I mean it,” Brock said, looking up from the book. “These are really good, man. How come I didn’t know about this?”

  
“I don’t really talk about it much,” Jack shrugged, taking the binder from Brock. “It was just a hobby. Haven’t done anything with it in years.”

  
“You should get some of those framed,” Brock said as he fished out his knife and cut the box down flat. “You could hang them up, make the place look nice.”

Jack turned to Brock but the other man just ignored him, continuing with his task. Jack shelved the binder before crowding up behind Brock and grabbing his hips. “What, you wanna be my muse or somethin’ ?” He drawled into Brock’s ear. He felt the shorter man shiver a little as Jack’s breath tickled his ear.

  
“Well, I mean how could you go wrong with such a magnificent specimen for inspiration.” Jack said nothing, just plucked the knife out of Brock’s hand and stabbed it into the side of the bookshelf. Brock’s outraged protests were cut short as Jack hoisted him up over his shoulder, smacking Brock hard enough on the ass to make him yelp.

“Barbarian,” Brock grumbled, struggling half-heartedly as Jack carried him across the living room towards the bedroom. “Put me down, asshole.”  
Jack’s only reply was to kick the bedroom door shut behind them.

 

 

It wasn’t until a few weeks later that Jack even picked up one of his old cameras. He had woken up early on a Saturday morning, far earlier than necessary. The birds were barely chirping and just the smallest hint of light peaked over the horizon.

  
Jack slipped quietly out of the bedroom, leaving his partner snoring softly. He made his way to the bookshelf and picked up the first camera in the line.

With careful hands, he gently went over each one. When he got to the last one, a Canon he had bought with his first paycheque from the military, he saw that it still had a few shots left on its roll. He stood there for a long moment with the camera in his hands before making up his mind. After giving the lens a quick clean, he walked quietly back to the bedroom.

By this time the sun and begun to rise over the building tops. Jack silently crept over and cracked the curtains open a smidgen. Warm light illuminated the dark haired man still asleep in bed. Brock slept on his back with one knee bent and a hand dangling over the edge of the mattress. His hair was tousled and soft, free of product. The thin grey sheets barely covered his crotch and had tangled themselves around his legs during the night.

  
His face was to the windows, expression soft and peaceful.  
Jack raised the camera to his eye and, for the first time in nearly a decade, he snapped a photo.

 

The next day Jack went out and bought a couple boxes of film. He carried out his tease about Brock being his muse, focusing the majority of his photos on the shorter man. Brock pretended to be annoyed, often shoving Jack away if he got within arms reach, but Jack could tell he secretly enjoyed it. Brock was a vain bastard, after all.


	2. March

It was an overcast day as Jack jogged past the Washington Monument and followed the path that looped back towards the Lincoln Memorial. He had decided to take an extra loop around the park before heading back to the apartment. Sweat dripped down his neck as he concentrated on keeping his breathing steady.

He nodded at a couple of guys running the opposite way, both dressed grey air force hoodies. He had seen them before, often doing laps around the Reflecting Pool. Jack checked his watch. It was starting to push seven. Jack wiped sweat from his eyes and turned up 15th Street, heading back through town.

He unlocked the door and kicked off his runners. He popped his earbuds out and opened the fridge, grabbing the protein shake he had put in there earlier. A rattling of chain and a dull thumping sound drew his attention down the hallway.

He made his way towards the source of the sound and peaked in through the open door.  
Brock and Jack had long since transformed the spare bedroom into a home gym, even before Jack had moved in. They had installed a couple large mirrors on one side and had put in wall-to-wall practice mats.

They had also taken off the closet door and built shelving for free weights and other loose equipment. A squat rack was set up by the door and in the opposite corner hung a heavy punching bag.

Silhouetted against the morning sun, Brock was going at the bag like it had personally insulted him. He wore weighted training gloves, his hair slicked back with sweat. He punched, ducked and kicked with such grace that it took Jack’s breath away. It was a deadly dance.

Brock paused after executing a flawless spinning hook kick to catch his breath and Jack ducked back into the hallway before he was seen. He quietly snuck back to the living room to grab one of his cameras, returning only once he could hear the creak of chain and impact of glove on bag again.

He stole silently up to the door way and lined up his sight. With a practised eye and hand, he waited until the perfect moment and took the shot. Click.

  
Not for the first time did a small part of his brain draw the parallel between this and his day job but he didn’t dwell on it for long as Brock paused mid-punch and turned to him. He huffed in annoyance. “Aren’t you snap-happy this morning,” Brock said as ran his fingers through his hair, combing it back from his forehead.

Jack just shrugged, bending down to pick up his abandoned protein shake. Brock reached out, making grabby hands at it. Now it was Jack’s turn to roll his eyes, but he obliged and handed over the shake. Brock gulped down half of it before Jack could even blink. He made a face. “Ugh, why do you always put dates in your shakes. It’s fucking disgusting.”

  
“It adds natural sweetness,” Jack replied as he snatched it back. Brock made a rude gagging noise, which the taller man chose to ignore, before adding, “Wanna grab the pads and run some drills?”

  
Jack nodded. He returned his camera to the safety of it’s shelf before grabbing the boxing pads from the closet.

 


	3. June

Jack was ready for a break. The last five months had been particularly rough. It felt as if every other day STRIKE was being called out on some mission or another, being flown off to the ass-crack of the world chasing after terrorists and missing bio-weapons.

Often Jack regretted having been found by HYRDA first, or that he had been sent undercover to S.H.I.E.L.D. Things would be a lot easier if he only had to work for one master. Not that it changed his job much, if at all. Being a sleeper agent meant that he essentially just worked for S.H.I.E.L.D. until such time as HYDRA saw fit to activate him. But it sometimes made Jack feel a little twitchy.

For all that people tended to write Jack off as just another soldier, a grunt good for nothing but following orders, he was quite insightful when it came to the people that he worked under. While it was true that HYDRA had sprung from a less than moral beginning, he was under no illusions that S.H.I.E.L.D. was much better. Any secret government organization was going to have skeletons, and he knew for a fact that S.H.I.E.L.D. had their fair share.

Even Jack had done some questionable things under S.H.I.E.L.D.’s orders, always under the blanket of ‘for the greater good’, as if that somehow made it better.

  
Jack never spoke about these thoughts with Brock. Unlike Jack, Brock had been recruited by S.H.I.E.L.D. straight out of the Special Forces. It wasn’t until a few years later that HYDRA had approach him.

Jack didn’t know what circumstances had made Brock trade in his loyalties and betray S.H.I.E.L.D., but whenever he tried to bring it up, the other man would look away and change the subject. After a couple of attempts, Jack stopped trying. He knew all too well what it was like to carry secrets and if Brock wasn’t ready or willing to share this one, he wasn't gonna push.

Jack ran one final spell check over his mission report and then hit send. He stood up from the couch with a groan, tossing the laptop in his locker and grabbed his go bag. His back was one massive ache, all cumulating to the dull throb just above one of his kidneys where some asshole had got in a lucky hit. Jack had paid him back in full for that.

He swiped his keycard at the next door check. He refrained from rolling his eyes and just nodded politely at the two new recruits who snapped to attention on the other side. Next week was his rotation as babysitter, also known as combat instructor.

  
He navigated the twists and turns of the Triskelion with ease, finally reaching the door that read CDR B. RUMLOW - STRIKE TEAM ALPHA.

He knocked politely, pushing his way upon hearing a muffled “Come,” from the other side of the door. He found Brock, buried behind a small mountain of paperwork, typing furiously away at his computer. He did nothing more but glance up as Jack closed the door behind him.

  
“You almost done?”

Brock threw up his hands in frustration. “No, I’m not almost fucking done! That mission was a cluster-fuck from start to finish! So now I have to explain why a Lamborghini Gallardo is included in the expense report. Murphy had to go and get himself shot in the leg which is a shit ton of paperwork in itself but it also means I now need to find a replacement for him when we ship out to Bahrain on Tuesday.

  
Blake just sent me his report barely ten minutes ago. I don’t even know why you're here, I still don't have your report, and Hunter dropped his off in writing because he ‘doesn’t trust computers’ and that chicken scratch is worse than S.H.I.E.L.D.’s medical staff! We should adopt it as our new code, the bad guys would be completely dumbfounded!”

 

Jack blinked, almost impressed that Brock had gotten all that out in one breath. The older man had always been a bit long winded, not to mention overly dramatic.

  
“I sent mine in before I came over.”

  
As if to emphasize his point, Brock’s computer dinged as Jack’s email arrived on his server. Jack smirked. Brock regarded him sourly. If looks could kill, Jack would have been dead before he hit the floor.

“Want some help?” he offered mildly. Brock continued to glare for a moment longer before grabbing a stack of papers and shoving them up in Jack’s direction. “Here,” he snapped. “See what you can decipher from Hunter’s scrawl.”

  
Jack took the papers, grimacing at the illegible mess in front of him. It was going to be a long night. He dropped his bag on the ground and took a seat across from his frazzled-looking commander.  
“I am never letting Blake drive anything ever again,” Brock muttered to himself as he went back to typing.

 

 

 

The sun had long ago set as Jack and Brock made their way to the car park. It had taken them an additional four hours to sift through everything and organize it in a cohesive package that Jack hoped to shit wouldn't be sent back for a redo.

“If I’d known there would be this much paperwork, I’d never have accepted the promotion,” Brock griped as he climbed behind the wheel of his black Jeep Wrangler.

Jack folded himself into the passenger side. They usually drove their own vehicles to work, keeping up the pretence that they were nothing more than coworkers and friends, but Jack’s was currently in the shop after some asshat had rear ended him the week prior.

He ignored Brock’s complaints as the Jeep reversed out of the stall and roared out from the underground parking lot. For all his bullshitting, Brock would never give up STRIKE. He was born for this kind of job. He kept everyone under him in line while inspiring the right mix of respect and fear. In short, he was damn good at his job, and he enjoyed it too.

The night was unusually warm as Brock navigated the roads in a winding path back to their apartment. Jack let himself doze, opening his eyes only as the gate to their apartment’s underground whirred open.

Upon entering their apartment, Brock had promptly dumped all his things in the foyer and announced he was going to have a shower. Jack threw yesterdays leftovers in the oven to heat up and then curled up on the couch, picking up the book he had been working on for the last two months. He really hadn't had much down time lately. Neither of them had.

 

After about half an hour, he heard the shower turn off and Brock rattle around in the bathroom for a bit. Jack put down the book, giving up on trying to make his brain focus on the small writing, and fiddled with one of his cameras.

A moment later and Brock made his exit, steam curling from his body and wearing nothing but a fluffy grey towel slung low over his hips. His hair was slicked back and water droplets still clung to his shoulders.

With practised ease Jack brought the camera up to his eye and snapped a picture. Brock stopped short, his eyes locking on Jack. “You have got to be kidding me,” he stated flatly.

  
“You should know by now that I have absolutely no sense of humour,” Jack drawled, setting the camera down and pacing slowly over to Brock. “Ask anyone.”

  
“Oh, I don’t have to ask,” Brock quipped back, always having to have to last word. “Because I know better.”

“Mmmm, do you now?” Jack crowded up against Brock, his hand gently tracing the skin along Brock’s hipbone. “Yep,” Brock replied, popping the P dramatically as Jack bent to press a kiss against his collarbone. “I’ll have you know that —,” The shorter man inhaled sharply as the Jack licked at a water drop, following the trail up Brock’s neck to the side of his jaw.

  
Jack nipped lightly at the side of Brock’s jaw behind pulling back, keeping his hands firmly on the other man’s hips. “You were saying?”

  
“Fucker,” Brock whispered as he unbuckled Jack’s belt, pulling it free with a harsh jerk and tossing it to the side.

“In a hurry are we?” Jack commented mildly as Brock untucked his shirt, sliding his warm hands up Jack’s muscled back. Jack hissed when Brock dug his nails in, scratching down hard enough that Jack was sure he’d find welts in the morning.

He grabbed a fistful of Brock’s thick black hair in retaliation, dragging the other mans head back with a sharp tug, exposing his throat. Brock moaned deep in his throat, a guttural sound that went straight to Jack’s groin.

  
“How do you wanna do this?” Brock questioned, just a little breathless. Jack’s only response was to grab a handful of Brock’s towel. Keeping his other hand buried in Brock’s hair, he tugged sharply with the other. The towel came free, leaving Brock completely naked.

Brock smirked. Jack decided to wipe that look off the smug bastards face and he spun them around, slamming Brock down against the kitchen counter.

With another sharp pull, he yanked Brock’s head back, forcing the shorter man to arch his back to alleviate some of the pressure on his scalp. Jack crowded up behind Brock, sliding a hand up his bare chest and gently resting it around his throat.

Brock groaned again and leaned his head back against Jack’s shoulder. He started to reach down to touch himself but Jack grabbed his wrist and slammed it back on top of the counter.

Brock laughed. “Oh I see. So that’s how we’re gonna do this.”

  
Jack leaned in close to Brock’s ear and growled “Shut up,” taking pleasure in the way a small shiver laced its way through Brock’s skin.

By the time Jack got back to the stove to take out the leftovers, they had dried out so much he could barely tell what type of food it had been. He tossed the whole lot in the garbage, and ordered Thai food. It had been worth it.


	4. July

It took Brock a good month to find the perfect revenge for the towel photo stunt that Jack had pulled on him, but Brock was a patient man. Actually, that was completely untrue but under the right circumstances he could be. Especially if those circumstances revolved around revenge, doubly so if it was against Jack.

The moment finally presented itself early one morning. It was the first weekend the two had had off in months. Jack, being the malicious fucker that he was, was up well before the sun.

Brock buried his head under the covers with a moan as the larger man bustled around the bedroom getting dressed. A moment later and Brock heard the front door shut. Crazy bastard was probably going for a run.

Brock fell back asleep, jerking away a couple hours later as the front door shut. He glanced at his phone; 07:18. No way in hell was Brock getting out of bed yet. This was his day off, for Christ’s sake.

He let himself dose as Jack bustled around the apartment, had a shower and started to cook breakfast. The tantalizing aroma of frying bacon wafted into the bedroom and Brock cursed under his breath. He definitely wasn't gonna get any more sleep now.

  
He threw back the covers, stumbling out of the bedroom in just his boxers. Jack had better have made coffee.

He paused in the doorway, greeted by a surprising but not unwelcome view. Jack was at the stove, scrambling eggs. He had a dishcloth thrown over one shoulder and that stupid apron Murphy got him for his birthday, the one that had _Grill Sergeant_ printed in big block letters, tied around his waist.

Besides that, Jack didn't have a scrape of clothing on him. His bare ass was on full view. Brock took a moment to admire the toned muscles, seriously you could bounce a quarter off that ass, before something else caught his eye.

Brock grinned gleefully and carefully snuck towards the kitchen. He picked up one of Jack’s many cameras which happened to be sitting on the side table by the front door.

  
He lined up his shot, prayed that it was in focus, and snapped the picture. As luck would have it, that was the same moment that the bacon decided to pop loudly, masking the shutter click.  
Brock quickly set the camera back down where he found it and walked the rest of the way into the kitchen.

He beelined it for the coffee pot, downing his first mug in record time before pouring himself a second. He added hazelnut flavoured creamer because fuck it, it was delicious and what nobody knew wouldn't hurt his reputation.

He hoisted himself up on the counter beside Jack and passed the time stealing pieces of bacon from the pan while trying, and failing, to avoid getting his fingers whacked by Jack’s spatula in the process.

 

 

Weeks later Brock was sitting at the breakfast bar, hardly able to contain his glee. Jack had just gotten the roll of film back from the developers and was slowly flipping through them.

Brock almost choked when he saw Jack freeze. He quickly busied himself with the acquisition form he was currently working on, something about getting new night vision equipment for STRIKE. He could feel Jack’s eyes boring holes into the top of his head.

“Asshole,” Jack cursed, tossing the stack of photos down on the counter. Brock glanced up to admire his work, displayed in black-and-white glory.

  
“More like your asshole, isn’t it?” He remarked mildly. He ducked to avoid being brained by an apple that Jack lobbed at his head with a growl.


	5. September

Jack was exhausted. That wasn’t unusual, but for some reason he had been assigned back-to-back shifts on the training roster. Brock hadn’t been able to give him a satisfactory answer, basically telling him to suck it up because there was nothing he could do.

So Jack had spent the last two weeks babysitting, aka running the new recruits through their paces. It was always tiring. They were like puppies, bundles of energy and optimism. Jack hated them. Not that he was completely jaded against the world yet, but he wasn’t a damn babysitter. They were all so eager, ready to jump to attention with a ‘Yessir, nossir, Right-Away-Sir.”

Only a couple had shown any real promise in his opinion. McCafferty had come to S.H.I.E.L.D. from the Air Force and was showing some conviction. One of the two women in the recruitment program, Jennings, was a champion kick boxer and had even kept Jack on his toes. Jack made a mental note to recommend her for STRIKE.

Jack’s keys jangled as he unlocked the door to the apartment. He was toeing off his boots when the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He tensed, hand hovering towards the switchblade he kept clipped to his belt, and then relaxed.

He inhaled the familiar scent of sandalwood and gun oil. Strong hands slipped around slide up his back and helped him shrug out of his jacket.

“Such a gentleman,” Jack drawled, turning around as Brock tossed his jacket in the general direction of the coat hooks. “Where were you even hiding?”

  
“I wasn’t hiding,” Brock rolled his eyes, before backtracking with, “I may or may not of been in the closet organizing.”

  
Jack smirked at the irony. “Makes sense”

  
“Shut the fuck up,” Brock said without any venom behind it. “Come ‘ere, I have something to show you.”

Jack let himself be dragged across the living room and down the hallway. Brock stopped with a flourish in front of a closed door. “Voila!”

  
“Oh goody, the office that neither of us use for anything besides collecting dust,” Jack said drily, crossing his arms. “What’s behind door number three, Bob?”

  
“It’s Drew now, Bob retired. Did you really just say ‘ oh goody’? Nevermind,” Brock continued before Jack could even answer. “Go on, open the door!”

  
“What for?”

  
“Just do it, asshole,” Brock snapped, growing impatient. Jack sighed, and obliged. He stepped into the shadowy room and flipped the switch. He wasn't expecting everything to be illuminated by a red glow. He looked around the room, any snarky comments completely forgotten as he took in the office. More accurately, what used to be the office.

Shallow trays sat on tables along one wall, rows of neatly stacked equipment in the far corner, and shelves lined the entire right wall. Coils of string and clothespins sat on the closest shelf.

  
It was a photography dark room. It was exactly like the set up he had used in high school. Better actually,with top-notch gear that did not come cheap. Jack turned to Brock, who was leaning against the doorjamb with a big shit-eating grin.

“But..when…how…” Jack tried to form a cohesive sentence, but his brain was still trying to catch up with what he was seeing. “The internet is a wondrous place,” Brock said. “And why do you think you got back-to-back training rotations the last few weeks? I needed to keep you out of the house.”

  
“Brock, I…this is…”

  
“Just shut up before you embarrass both of us,” Brock glanced down, a rose flush creeping up behind his ears. He looked back up, eyes meeting Jack’s.

  
“Happy Birthday, asshole.”

 


End file.
